


Some Words Aren't

by SilviaKundera



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Character Study, HIV/AIDS, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-04
Updated: 2003-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 19:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilviaKundera/pseuds/SilviaKundera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A raw look at what it might be like, to be Michael Novotny. Because, like, they're the domestic, happy couple that Justin wanted to be so BADLY, but then we have that moment of poor Michael trying to find everything (he has his wallet already *sniff*) and get to the hospital, and I'm like, <i>'oh baby, honey you don't want that.'</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Words Aren't

He can see that they want to say it -- "So how does it feel to fuck a dead man?" -- and he almost wants to answer ("Like drowning"), except that sounds terrible, and cruel, and it's honestly neither of those things, and it's also so much worse.

*

They make dumplings, and weirdly seasoned food he still can't name, and watch dumb actions movies with really hot guys, and those movies you have to read, and pick out books together and do a chapter or two before sleep, and Ben is so beautiful.

He says, "We're very happy," when he runs into those people you see only once or twice in a very long while, and they say, "I'm so happy for you," and they say happy, and he says yes, happy, happy, and he means every word, and it's all so fucking horrible.

*

He's afraid of missing the smallest thing, and he wants to close his eyes and never wake up, and what he does is do nothing, he smiles, he says,

"We're great,"

and Ben's arm is warm around his shoulder.

*

They go miniature golfing.

Ben, who is good at anything and everything, is terrifically bad at it, and Michael would go with Debbie and Brian, when Brian was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, and every other crack was about balls.

He just can't _lose_ , and Ben kisses him, and it tastes like things Michael never even knew he wanted and like an itching, worming in his gums.

It's just a nervous reaction.

It's stupid.

*

"You're so good to me," he says, and Ben grins into his forehead, hard hot mouth.

*

He watches his mother's hand on Ben's shoulder, how uncareful she is. She smiles gentle enough that he knows she means it, and he loves her, _god_ he loves her.

She says, "Get your ass over here. Let me fix that eyesore," and tugs on his tie until he squirms and pleads,

"Would you just _go_?"

and she laughs at him, stretches his name out -- the full one -- and laughs even louder.

*

Michael wonders if she still dreams of doctors and lawyers, in her deepest of sleeps, and hurts for her, and wants her to _shut the fuck up_ , even though she's silent and smiling and selfish and so much braver than him.

She just stands there, like an unstoppable brick house. The immovable object.

*

She bought them a plant, for a sort of late moving-in gift, and it's not like anything she's ever given him before. It's thick, with meaty leaves, and looks like it could weather a hurricane and kick your fucking ass, but they have to keep it in direct sunlight and it just hates him, Michael is pretty sure.

It hates him, and it's always sickly and actually fairly ugly, but he needs it to live, and that's not a metaphor.

Metaphors and similes and symbolism are for smarter people, who didn't fuck off with Brian instead of showing up for class and went to an actual real college. He just needs it not to fucking die -- that's oddly important.

*

He doesn't mean to, but one week Ben's so busy, and Michael only sometimes waters it, and.

"I'll just get you a new one, honey," she says, and Michael thinks he might throw up, and he imagines what they'd say if he kept it, they'd say --

And he says,

"No, that's all right."

*

They replace it with loose pages, stacked high and toppling, where Ben has scratched in a line or twelve, tearing them out of his notebook.

They tell some kind of story -- theoretically.

Ben writes like a person possessed, like Michael's mother lives and his best friend fucks, and he answers, "In a moment," when Michael begs for sleep. "In a moment."

*

Michael naps at the store, behind the counter with his feet hidden by a row of vintage _Wonder Woman_ , and tries not to ask as much but can't help it.

"Just for _tonight_ ," he says, and Ben says,

"I really want to finish this."

*

Past midnight it's not about sentences, and Ben scribbles nothing, but hard, wrist twisted and clenched.

It's maybe brilliant, and the book will end up in a nameless bin in a nameless store -- every bit of it.

"I have to finish this, Michael," he mumbles, when Michael doesn't even speak, not a word.

*

And Michael helps him gather the pieces, one by one by two by slice.

"I understand," he says.


End file.
